Obviously what you are doing right now is called (in my upcoming book of psychology at least) validation. I think it's a normal thing to do. People will reply, say anything, and then you're gonna do what you were subconsciently thinking of doing all along.

this is a movie for (violent and) horny 14 year olds, but i can't really see the appeal to any wider audience than that. the movie takes a giant shit on anything resembling respect toward women. the dialogue is repetitive within the script and thematically unoriginal. i also found it to be completely visually unstimulating from the opening titles forward. i wanted to slash the screen at points just to break the monotony of the extended use of idiotic metaphors. the environment of the film was also completely without any police, which was strange but at least that helped avoid even more cliche dialogue.

i understand that this film is supposed to be a celebration of everything i hate about it, but it didn't work for me at all.

Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino's Grindhouse was a daring experiment that failed to catch on, an attempt to drag the down-market stuff they grew up on into the 21st century without dislodging a molecule of grit. But Grindhouse's commercial failure wasn't such a bad thing. Had it been a hit, we might be seeing more movies like the Tarantino-produced Hell Ride, a witless reprise of '60s and '70s biker movies written, directed by, and starring Larry Bishop.

Bishop plays Pistolero, a badass motorcycle-gang leader feared by men and desired by women. But as the film opens, Bishop's leadership has reached a point of crisis. A rival gang led by Vinnie Jones (who totes a high-tech crossbow and apparently hails from the bike-loving desert outskirts of London) has killed one of Bishop's best lieutenants, and a new addition to Bishop's gang has some connection to the long-ago death of a female acquaintance.

What's a biker to do? Well, if you're Bishop, you keep your mouth frozen in a half-smirk/half-grimace, and you bike back and forth between a pair of locations, killing and/or fucking while the soundtrack cycles through score snippets from old biker movies. Everyone in Hell Ride seems to be playing dress-up, and apart from Michael Madsen's turn as the tuxedo-shirt-wearing "Gent," no one quite fits into the costumes. Any film that gets Dennis Hopper back on a motorcycle can't be all bad, but Hell Ride sure tries to be. Sludgy even when it hits the highway, it stops at one point for a painful double-entendre-laden exchange in which Bishop and one of the film's succession of biker babes with suspiciously firm breasts and gym-toned abs exchange suggestive lines about "fire-eating," "fire hoses," "calling the fire department," and on and on. (They're actually talking about sex. Get it?) Elsewhere, a character praises adherence to the three B's: "bikes, beer, and booty." Hell Ride features plenty of all three, but someone should have told Bishop that working through a checklist isn't the same as making a movie.

Obviously what you are doing right now is called (in my upcoming book of psychology at least) validation. I think it's a normal thing to do. People will reply, say anything, and then you're gonna do what you were subconsciently thinking of doing all along.